


Flat Washers and Broken Wrists

by cecilkirk



Category: Panic! at the Disco, Ryden - Fandom
Genre: Angst, High School AU, M/M, Ryden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-13 19:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5715118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecilkirk/pseuds/cecilkirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's the point in trying to predict anything? A high school AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fall

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Lavadoras Planas y Muñecas Rotas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6520687) by [HeyRyden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyRyden/pseuds/HeyRyden)



_Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower._

-–Albert Camus

 

 

_Everyone must take time to sit and watch the leaves turn._

-–Elizabeth Lawrence

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. fall; one

There was nothing more perplexing than the human heart.

Nothing was ever so interesting, confusing, enrapturing. Brendon yearned to form relationships with everyone he could. He loved seeing how words could morph as they hit ears, how the body would react—how the heart would interpret. There was no prediction worthwhile. The ambiguity, the feeling of no control—that was how Brendon lived and loved and perceived the world. But this was always at a distance; these thoughts were six inches to the right of his life. He could not—and, perhaps for the best, for the sake of his interest—and would not try to predict it.

 

 

 

Brendon was deep into a textbook when Ryan came home. The two often studied together because there was no better motivator than having a partner. It had become less common as Ryan had gotten deeper into the relationship with his girlfriend, but it hadn’t completely halted. Nor could they let it; both were strong in the others’ weaknesses and they found quickly they couldn’t academically function for long without the other. It had, however, slowed, trickled, become irregular enough to no longer be dependable.

He didn’t stop trying to evaluate integrals until Ryan’s body seated across the kitchen table hadn’t moved for several moments.

Ryan’s eyes were deeply, deeply sad, enough to cement Brendon’s limbs. Stitched with empathy as he was, he was nearly in tears at the sight.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Ryan looked unseeingly at the wall beside him, head dipped. “I had to break up with Keltie.”

Brendon’s chest ached. Ryan never referred to her by her full name. “Why?”

A moment passed; his throat bobbed. “She cheated on me. She was fucking some guy in her car. She—she…”

He said nothing more, and sighed.

Brendon, who had always been a pacifist, taking the high road, felt a churn in his stomach. It was fiery and sent manic energy accelerating through his veins. Even hearing the word _fuck_ in that raw, soft voice in a home it didn’t belong was enough to unknit his peace. He yearned for vengeance.

“We’re getting back at her.”

“What?” Ryan asked sadly. His despondency was already taking an ugly shape, complementary to Brendon’s newfound desire.

His urge to destroy was taking him down the road heavily traveled to the point of indentation, but he did not realize it. It was all too new to Brendon. “An eye for an eye. Let her know you’ve found someone new to love.”

The intimacy of the word was enough to make both boys blush, if not only the slightest.

“How?” Ryan asked.

“We’ll make her see it.” Brendon picked up Ryan’s phone from the table, flashing its front toward him in emphasis. “A picture of you kissing someone.”

Ryan’s cheeks reddened even more.

Before he could let the thought sit long enough in his mind to predict the outcome, Brendon acted. He swiped open the camera, grabbed Ryan’s shirt in one fist, smashed their lips together, held the phone out and above them, and took the picture.

Brendon imagined they would both laugh over the situation. Maybe the intense energy leading him to do something so rash would sink to the level of reality of his actions, and it would seem so silly, so childlike. It would be nothing serious; it wasn’t meant to be.

If Brendon had ever learned to predict, he lost all ability now.

No laughter was bubbling from his stomach and through his lips; no smiles were gracing Ryan’s face, releasing sadness quickly and efficaciously into the atmosphere like the cracking open of a soda. Brendon now found his stomach knotting; nothing was rising—it was all plummeting. He knew this serious.

Ryan, motionless, only reddened further. Brendon felt his own face burn.

“I—I, um...” Brendon tries, blinking.

No response, only flickering eyes.

“Sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think it through,” Brendon mutters. The gut reaction to his feelings is apologetic—he feels sadness blooming in his chest.

Ryan cannot meet Brendon’s eyes any longer. Instead, he gathers his things and leaves, plucking his phone from Brendon’s hand.

Heaving, heavy, dense, a flood, a wall, _what the hell was he thinking_ —

Brendon doesn’t give it the gravity to crash onto him.

He finds that he can do a lot of homework when it serves as a distraction.

 

 

 

School means nothing to Brendon the next day. He did not sleep, or even try to; he has done enough homework to be able to predict every one of today’s lessons nearly to the T. He berates himself for only learning this skill now.

Exhaustion has melted his cognitive skills to a film, which leaves him plenty of room to think, overthink, worry. Why did he do it? What on earth made him feel like that would only be jovial? And why was it so instinctual, his gut reaction?

He walks close to the wall in the hallway, shoved wayward by the crowds of people. A door opens and he nearly collides with someone: the one person who breaks the net from beneath his fog.

The two are mere inches from each for half a moment, before separating.

Brendon’s heart aches as he chokes out an “I’m sorry” repeatedly, awkwardly.

“It’s okay, Brendon. It really is.” Ryan’s words penetrate more deeply than he intended, and Brendon feels his pulse quickening—and then not anticipating feeling so silly and childish. His stomach knots in embarrassment. Ryan called him by his name. Ryan, who only used monikers, had resorted to using Brendon’s given first name. It sounded like purposefully forgotten history.

He tries to feign a smile.         

The two part in opposite directions, but Brendon’s foot hooks Ryan’s. Ryan is neatly swept off his feet. He breaks his fall with his hand, but it was a mistake.

“I’m sorry!” Brendon says too loudly, excess manic energy finding its release in his voice. Ryan clutches his wrist, wincing, pulling it into his chest.

“It’s okay,” Ryan says. His voice is tenuous now, pitched sharp. He scrambles to get his things and leave before Brendon can say anything, look at him, share the air.

           

 

 

Ryan does show up at Brendon’s house, but an hour later than usual and with a cast. Brendon feels shame fester in his chest and cheeks. He feels guilty for not realizing how Ryan had actually been hurt. For once Ryan was not feeling inclined to inform Brendon of his suffering, and it was unprecedented.

“I’m—”

“Look, it’s fine, okay?” Ryan says sharply, but not loudly. He could never attack.

Brendon says nothing.

It is several minutes before Ryan speaks again.

“I think I loved her, Brendon.”

Brendon feels a fog reentering his mind. He will not process his emotions now. And he will not apologize again.

“I really don’t know how to handle this. I didn’t mean to leave so abruptly yesterday. I’m sorry,” Ryan finally concedes.

Brendon’s heart rises a little. “It’s okay,” he says. Ryan smiles a little, and it is effortlessly enough for Brendon to smile back.

Some semblance of normalcy seeps back into their routine. Brendon can almost feel comfort dissipating the fog. Ryan opens a textbook and grimaces aloud, scoffing at work like he always did. He opens a notebook, picks up a pencil, and then sets it down. He pushes back the chair and walks away. Not too briskly, or quickly. Brendon hears a door open down the hall—the bathroom. But he doesn’t see the light disappear from the hallway.

He finds Ryan standing just inside the doorway. He tries to shove a cotton swab in his cast.

“I really thought we were going to be something great,” Ryan says, trying to peer into his cast. “I thought it was something I felt in my bones.”

Brendon is unsure of the validity of Ryan’s feelings. This was a girl notorious for her infidelity, but Ryan had pined over her for years. Brendon knew it would be tragic from the moment it started, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell Ryan so. He hoped it had been an act of altruism.

Ryan meets Brendon’s eyes. He’s trying to dig out shredded cotton. “I feel very lonely now.”

“Ryan, you know I’m always here for you.”

“I know.” He looks down at his cast, scratching a nail on the plaster absentmindedly. Some wisps were irretrievable; he had to leave them be. “So, yesterday…”

Brendon cannot think of words. He stares at Ryan.

“I…I want to feel less lonely.”           

Unsaid words file into Brendon’s ears. Surely he must be misinterpreting them.

“I do, too.” Brendon’s face burns at his own subtext.

The two hold eye contact, searching, searching.         

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Brendon says. The subtext is explicit now, bleeding life into his nerves and thoughts. He looks into Ryan’s eyes, searching for anything to verify a reaction complementary to his intent. His eyes are too full of oscillation; they are too hard to read.

 

           

 

They sit across from the table and do not talk, but it is not awkward. A comfort is finally creeping back into their shared life, and yet it is doing just that: creeping. It is not natural or fluid, but it is something.

Brendon is always yearning to grasp onto something.

Hours pass and Brendon feels nothing. He doesn’t remember filling out page after page of notebook paper. His handwriting does not match his typical style. Even Ryan’s eventual absence isn’t enough of an affirmation, a great enough distance, for Brendon to let gravity work, to let everything plummet and crash and flood.

He finally deigns to check his phone—something to distract him from the inundation of thoughts that’s feeling fit to burst his skull at the seams. He scrolls mindlessly through his phone—shades of blue glaze his eyes, pictures bounce off that film, not making contact long enough to even touch his memory. And then a message comes through: an image, no text. He downloads it, and it’s an image of a girl in skimpy underwear and a thin tee-shirt.

He blinks, and blinks again.


	3. fall; two

Brendon wasn’t used to seeing things like this, but it didn’t surprise him. It was her sense of humor; he also assumed she sent it to another person with serious intentions. He knew far better than she how funny this image was to Brendon.

He puts his phone away and tries to sleep, but thoughts come back. He channels them, forcing some waves away, damming others, letting a select few trickle and even only the clearest of those.

Sarah…he was so lucky to have her in his life. They’d only been friends for a few months, but she was wonderful. Bright white light, and it passed through his ribs effortlessly. She was hope and love, a deeply beautiful person.

He still stayed up nearly the whole night, his thoughts flooding and imploding and rebuilding and bursting endlessly, but he felt some semblance of peace thinking about Sarah.

 

 

 

It was clichéd and overused to the point of disgust, but Brendon really was glad it was Friday. It seemed pitiful to have to wait all week to do something with his life, but that was the structure he’d come to adopt. It was his senior year, so he tried to look at it with forced, preemptive nostalgia, but it didn’t work. He still yearned to escape—equally as clichéd a thought, but true. True, true, true.

Exhaustion carried him through the day. He remembered nothing and thought lots about everything. Ryan, mostly, but also Sarah. He’d come to the conclusion that he really loved Sarah.

He really did.

Friday afternoons were usually dedicated to homework—getting out of the way was the responsible thing to do—but it didn’t always happen. And that was fine. Ryan sat across from Brendon, like always, like he had for years and years, and they both knew no work was going to get done that day.

Brendon blinks and his eyes burn. He doesn’t even try to count the hours he hadn’t dwelled in sleep. “Hey,” he says, rubbing his face. “I’m just gonna lay down for a little while, okay?”

Ryan looks up at him. There’s something different in them, clouding them enough to where Brendon can’t give it any more identification than what he wants to be there. “Yeah, all right. That’s fine.”

Brendon doesn’t know what to think of him. But he does know his brain is too fried for any real thought to form.

 

 

 

He awakens to pale orange light hovering in the air, seeping in from the streetlights. He’s on the basement futon, and his phone tells him it’s just after two a.m.—not quite morning, not quite night. Pliable, undefined, just for him.

Brendon sits up, stretches. He’s well rested but groggy, and not acclimated to starting his day at this hour. But it was something—it was rest, and that was fine. He clicks on the lamp on the table beside the futon, and his heart stops.

“Jesus, Ryan.”

He’s sitting on the floor against the far wall. “Sorry.”

Brendon rubs his face. The remaining grogginess had been shocked out of his system now. “It’s fine, just—why are you still here?”

“I didn’t really want to go home, and, you know, it’s not like I haven’t spent the night here before.” His eyes are tired, so faded and drained.

“I know, but it’s—” Brendon swallows, wondering if he should finish. “It’s kind of different now, isn’t it?”

Ryan pushes his hair back, sighing. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean…I don’t know.” He pauses, and then: “I just miss her.”

“No, you don’t,” Brendon says, going over to sit in front of Ryan. “You miss what you wanted to be there. She treated you like shit, man, and you know it.”

Ryan doesn’t say anything. He looks away and wipes his left hand across his eyes, the one not in a cast. “Yeah, I guess.”

“No, not guess. You know. You went out of your way to watch her play away games and help her study for classes you hadn’t even taken and treat her well. She didn’t deserve it. You tried to make something happen, but it couldn’t be done. There wasn’t any possibility.”

He waits for Ryan to respond. This was…awkward. For as long as they’d been friends, they had never really talked about serious things. Their friendship was based on light, happy times, shared jokes and fun and laughter. This was crossing a line into gravity, reality—intimacy. It was foreign.

Then again, maybe they’d already crossed that line two days ago.

Brendon grits his teeth at feeling his cheeks burn. Ryan looks up at him with wet, aged eyes. God, he’d always been an old soul, but this was heartbreaking. How could he have poured so much love into someone who didn’t love him back?

“What did it mean, Bren?”

He feels like he underestimated the number of stairs, plummeting inches but feeling like miles. Air freezes in his throat for a moment. “Nothing, nothing, I was just trying to help you, and it just…went awry.”

“It didn’t mean anything?”

Brendon froze. He thought about the time, how both of them were soaked in hours that hadn’t yet been assigned meaning. He felt the energy of possibility in his hands, buzzing in his fingertips, and he knew what he had to say, even though it wasn’t what he wanted.

What he’d said earlier, the night before, was that it didn’t have to mean anything. If Ryan didn’t want it to, then it wouldn’t.

“No, it didn’t mean anything.”

Ryan’s eyes flicker through his, like fingers dancing through files in a cabinet. “Okay. I’ll just crash upstairs then.”

“Yeah, okay,” Brendon replies. A dense fog filled his chest, but he refused to think about it.

Ryan looks behind Brendon for a moment before retreating upstairs.

Brendon puts his face in his hands, tries not to think about anything. A good solution to ignoring feelings was his phone, and luckily a message awaited him.

Sarah: you still coming over tomorrow?

He types an affirmation quickly. He’d forgotten that it was their six month mark. A new form of stress settles in his bones, weighing him down. He makes his way back to the futon, collapsing, attempting to convince himself that he can fall asleep if he tries.

He tries to keep them at bay, and yet—

Had Ryan seen his phone light up? Why did he ask if it meant anything? And why had he sat downstairs this whole time?

Brendon groans into the pillow.

How could he have known Ryan his whole life and still be unable to anticipate what he’d do next?

 

 

 

Unable to sleep, Brendon waited until midmorning to go upstairs. He could at least pretend he’d slept, fabricate some type of normalcy—fake it till you make it, right? a bitter voice offers.

Ryan is in the kitchen, helping himself to cereal. Not out of the ordinary, a routine that had been followed many times before, but now it was different, like walking on sidewalk covered in ice. He felt like he was bound to trip and crash even though he’d walked here so many times before.

Why? Why, why, why?

“Hey, so, I’m busy today, and I have to leave soon, so, you know—”

“Oh,” Ryan says through food. He’s holding the bowl in his right hand, using the cast as balance. “Yeah, I can head out soon.”

“Okay,” Brendon says. He doesn’t know where to go, what to say, what to do. It didn’t mean anything, so why was it making it so hard for him to find comfort and normalcy again? Was he just letting it be difficult because—

Brendon grits his teeth, but the thought still finishes.

\--because he wanted it to mean something?

He leaves the kitchen, heads to his room, as if changing location could alter his thoughts. He figured it was worth a try.

Showering briefly, grabbing his wallet, slipping on shoes, and he’s ready. Ready to leave, and so ready to go, so desperately ready.

Ryan’s about to walk out the door when Brendon comes back to the living room. Ryan always made sure to say goodbye before leaving, and now he was trying to sneak out. Brendon’s jaw clenches, but he speaks up nevertheless.

“Hey,” he calls out. “See you Monday then, right?”

Ryan turns. The thumb free of the cast in the strap of his backpack. “Yeah, sure, Bren.”

Using nicknames again was a good sign, promising the reiteration and permanence of routine, normalcy, comfort, everything that had been so absent lately. And yet they held eye contact for a long time, and Brendon didn’t know what it meant.

He hears the crunch of metal from outside. An impossibly old car had hit the curb, and the driver climbs out to look at the damage. But then she  walks through the grass toward the house, and suddenly Brendon feels panic and nausea brew.

“Oh no,” Ryan says, tone indicating he feared for her car’s damage.

The words repeated in Brendon’s head on a stream, in a different tone. _Oh no, oh no, ohnoohnoohno—_

She comes up to the door, opening it without hesitation. Ryan looks at her and back at Brendon.

Brendon swallows.

“Hey.” Sarah nods to Ryan politely before turning her attention to Brendon. “You ready?”

“Um, yeah, just saying goodbye.”

“Yeah, bye, Brendon,” Ryan says quietly, walking around Sarah.

“Who was that?” Sarah asks.

Brendon’s chest sinks. She’s wearing a hoodie that’s too big on her and from the school he goes to. And if Ryan didn’t see it was his last name printed on the back, he had probably syllogized as much.

“A friend,” Brendon says, closing the door behind him. “Just a friend.”


	4. fall; three

“You ready?”

Brendon sighs. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Oh, come on now,” Sarah says as she locks the car. “I’m not that bad.”

“Yes, you are,” Brendon says lightly.

“Whatever, boyfriend.” She takes his hand, and he can’t help but smile as they walk toward her house. He couldn’t believe how much he loved her.

“God be with us,” Sarah says as she crosses herself before opening the front door. Brendon snorts.

They’re greeted with her loud, happy parents. He gets a pat on the back and a dozen and a half questions about how his life has changed since last weekend all at the same time. He smiles at their warmness, their eagerness to make him feel welcome. He can see their brightness in Sarah’s eyes and he wonders how the house could possibly feel cold in the winter.

“So, a movie and dinner tonight, then?” her mother asks, offering him food he feels he can’t accept.

“Yep,” he says. Sarah is standing behind her mother, making fun of her, lighthearted as it only could be. He can’t help but grin.

“Six months!” her dad says. He’s holding one of their dogs, kissing the top of its head. “Incredible.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says, blushing, smiling. It really was.

“Stop, you’re embarrassing him,” Sarah says, walking over to put her arm around his waist. “Anyway, we should be home kind of late. Movie’s supposed to be pretty long, and Dino’s is usually pretty busy on Saturdays.”

“All right, but no shenanigans,” her mother warns playfully. Brendon can’t believe this isn’t out of some movie or book, carefully scripted for beauty. “But before you leave, let’s get a picture!”

Sarah rolls her eyes. It’s not bitter or annoyed, just fun, and it’s so…beautiful. It paints her features so well. She hands her phone to her mother, replaces her hand around his waist, pressing her cheek against his own. Warmth radiates, and he can’t tell how much is just from him blushing.

When they get back to her car, Sarah puts her head on the steering wheel and groans. “I’m so sorry. They’re the worst.”

“No, they’re not.” They’re really wonderful, he thinks.

She starts the car. “Well, if you can deal with me, they must be a breeze.”

“Don’t say that. You’re great.” She rolls her eyes at him. “You’re the best girlfriend a guy could want.”

She smiles at him, and it comes from deep inside—among where they both reserve their relationship.

“I love you,” Brendon says in a singsong voice just to make her smile brighter. And he really did.

 

 

 

“Sometimes I really can’t believe any of this.”

“Any of what?”

Brendon sees her gesture in broad sweeping motions from across the store. “This. Us. Whatever we’re doing.”

He picks up a spatula, looks it over in curiosity that isn’t completely fabricated. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, whoever thinks they’ll be dating someone and not really mean it?” Her voice gets louder as she walks further away. This was their way of dealing with their problems. Something about bringing private topics and thrusting them into public felt like it was a solution. There was also the simultaneous comfort of anonymity and fear that someone they knew would hear. But it felt proactive, calming. Whenever they felt under loads of stress, doing this helped. Voicing problems and ensuring their reality was comforting.

Brendon looks at the price sticker. Almost thirty bucks? Yikes. “Yeah.”

Sarah walks over to him. “You seem distracted. Wait! Don’t tell me—after all this time you’ve secretly fallen in love with me. Oh, how beautifully tragic, Don. My heart aches for you.” She puts the back of her hand to her forehead, sighing dramatically.

“Ha,” he replies dryly, but out of humor, not aggravation.

She pulls the spatula out of his hand, tapping his shoulder with it. “But _surely_ there are loads of girls clamoring over you. And _surely_ you must deign to find one worth a second glance.”

He pulls the spatula out of her hand and puts it back on the shelf. “If there are, I haven’t noticed.”

“How are girls not throwing themselves at you? You’re _so_ pretty, Don.”

He smiles, blushes. “Didn’t think you were the best judge of that.”

“I’m not _blind_ ,” she says. “And if you really can’t find one suitable enough, feel free to send them my way.” She takes his hand and leads them out of the store and to another.

“Yeah, yeah,” he smiles.

She squeezes his hand before parting, walking to the opposite side of the clothes store. He hears her mutter an “Oh, yuck,” and he can’t help but smile more.

“So Don,” she says loudly, holding up a shirt. “Who was that boy this morning?”

He clenches his jaw, freezes, and briskly walks over to her. She grins in a way illustrating she knows he’s going to talk about something serious, which is rarely ever done. The incoming drama is too intriguing.

“My best friend. Ryan Ross,” he says, keeping his voice low.

“Friend, eh?” she says, elbowing his side gently, imitating his low, secretive volume. “He seemed a little bothered by this.” She holds out her arms, indicating Brendon’s hoodie.

“He just didn’t know we’re dating, or whatever,” he says.

“Oh,” she says softly, dampening her tone. They’ve come to notice when the other wants to talk—when it was right to drag it out of them, and when it was right to let them say it on their own. Sarah knew this was the latter.

“So…no special girl in your life? Just me?”

Brendon smiles, but it feels stretched. “Yeah. Just you.”

“Hey,” Sarah says, grabbing one of his hands with both of hers, looking him in the eyes. “You all right? You seem really bothered.”

He looks at her briefly, then looks away. “Yeah, just…” He takes a deep breath, releases it slowly. They were kindred spirits; he could do this. He fights away the panic, the hesitation, assumptions of the worst flooding his mind, but he suppresses them. “Just, you know, really don’t ever think there’ll be a special girl in my life.”

Her eyes light up and Brendon blushes. Panic is still filling his lungs, but it’s slowly leaking out. “Are you saying what I think you are?”

He smiles, feels tears welling. She throws her arms around him in a hug, tight and warm and full of love.

“I kind of figured,” she whispers, and Brendon barks out a laugh. He presses his face into her shoulder, breathing deeply, wrapping his arms around her waist. He loved her. He really, really did.

 

 

 

“D’you remember our first date?” Sarah asks.

Brendon covers his face. “Let’s not talk about it.”

She crosses her legs, playing at the hole in the knee of her jeans. “Oh, but we should.”

He scoots his back against the windshield, laying on it, hands flat on the hood. “Fine. Enlighten me again, if you wish.”

She lays back, offering him a Twizzler. He takes it. “Well,” she says, chewing, “you were so awkward I couldn’t tell if you remembered it wasn’t real.”

“You were flirting with me the whole time. I second-guessed my memory twice a minute.”

She grins. “You’re fun to toy with.”

“Oh, fuck you.” He swipes the bag out of her hands.

She pulls a Twizzler out of the bag. “But, hey, in all seriousness, I’m really glad we have this thing.” She pulls her knees up, looks at the candy in her hands. “I really need this. My parents are finally getting all right again, and…”

Brendon nods. He’d had to deal with the aftermath more than once.

“They get so happy when they see you. It kind of breaks my heart, you know? Because I’m not what they approve of--that this whole thing brings them so much joy and it’s a complete lie.”

“Hey now,” Brendon says. “To be fair, I’m not what they approve of either.”

“Yeah,” she says softly, passively, sadly.

“Listen. It’ll be all right. Take it all a day at a time. We may not be dating, but you’re still wonderful, and I love you.” Brendon takes her hand. She squeezes back.

“Thanks, Don.” She sits up, twists to crack her back. “Well, I think the movie must have ended fairly recently. We should probably start heading home. Make sure they don’t think we’re home late because of ‘shenanigans.’” Sarah’s voice oozes mockery, but even when she has so much reasoning for it to be angry, it’s not. She could never do that.

 

 

 

The ride home is full of music loud enough to damage Sarah’s ancient speakers and her own purposefully off-key singing. Brendon tries to sing along like usual, but as the hour passes, he can’t bring himself to do it.

When they get to his house, his arms feel too leaden to open the door. Now his house will feel different. Everything will, now that he’s finally told someone.

“Goodbye, my love. Happy half-year anniversary,” Sarah says in a regal voice.

“Yeah,” Brendon says. He can’t even move.

“Don, you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says hurriedly, unclicking his seatbelt. “Just, you know, got lots of homework.”

“You can get through it, man. I know you can.”

She was doing it again: talking about his issues indirectly. He felt it in his core, unsettling his guts. He chewed his lip.

“Don’t let it hold you down, Don. You can do it. You can do anything. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

He looks at her, tacitly begging for her to say more. They both know she isn’t talking about homework.

“Remember that you can always change your life, okay? Maybe you can’t stop the rain, but you can choose how you react to it. You can be glad that it waters your flowers instead of being upset it’s soaking the clothes you just put on the line. You know? You have words and thoughts and actions completely in your reach. Use them to your advantage.”

He clenches his jaw, unable to look away. “Thank you, Sarah.”

“Of course, Don.” She smiles, pulling a Twizzler out from its bag in the console. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” he says, climbing out of the car. Cool night air hits him, and he can finally breathe. His eyes burn with tears, but it’s okay. He feels a little more at peace.

God, how he loved Sarah.


	5. fall; four

A breath skips and stutters in his lungs, ragged from tears. He wipes his eyes, but he’s smiling, grinning, wide enough to force more out. He stands on the lawn with his hands on his head, smiling up at the moon, letting gravity force the tears down. His feet feel buoyant, like his whole body could float away. Warmth, a filling, filling warmth brews in his chest. A laugh bubbles up from his ribs, silent but full.

He feels okay.

 

 

 

He walks through the front door and his smile shatters between his feet.

“Has that Ross kid been coming over?”

His voice is even, smooth, but sounds fit to break.

Brendon says nothing.

His dad comes out of the kitchen with a bracelet, and recognition makes Brendon’s ears burn. He lets it dangle, pinching it between thumb and forefinger.

Brendon still says nothing. It’s the bracelet Brendon made for him years and years ago, one of those string shitty friendship bracelets. Brendon had stolen a few colors from a girl at school to make for him, and now they’re faded. It even had something tied onto it—what, a washer? Brendon didn’t remember doing that. It was still knotted, but Ryan hadn’t been wearing it. He couldn’t have; it was much too small. Why did he still have it?

“It probably fell out of my backpack or something.”

“Why do you have it?”

Neither moves any closer. The distance between them is too large; they have to speak loudly, uproot the words with so much force, and it feels so much more intimate.

“It was probably just put in my backpack. On accident, or a joke, or something.”

His dad says nothing. He throws it in the trash. Brendon can hear the metal hit the bottom of the can.

“Why did you think it was Ryan’s?” Brendon asks.

“He’s a queer. He likes girl stuff.”

Brendon grits his teeth. “He had a girlfriend for over a year.”

His dad snorts, and it makes Brendon’s hands restless. “It’s not hard to fake feelings for the public.”

Brendon says nothing, letting his dad walk in front of him to the kitchen without any response. “I’ve seen that kid around town. He still wears makeup, still does his hair, still wears those clothes. He’s nothing but a predator. And if I ever find out he’s still trying to talk to you, I’ll make sure he never tries again.”

Brendon’s face burns. He walks to the kitchen, fishing the bracelet out from the trash, putting it in his pocket. He goes upstairs to his room and looked it over in his hands. Where did the washer come from?

He felt it in his fingers, smooth and cold. As children they had been nearly inseparable, and now they rarely saw each other. School scheduling was awful, but now…now that Ryan wasn’t with Keltie, he had more time.

Brendon thought about thirteen-year-old Ryan first getting tight jeans, and how he really loved them. He thought about how, on his fourteenth birthday, he’d gotten Ryan cheap eyeliner and eyeshadow, snuck into his locker, deep in his backpack. He thought about when he called Brendon after he’d chopped off chunks of his hair after months of letting it grow out: spiky on top, a look he mastered quickly. He thought of how, when the two were going out together, Ryan always wore more makeup, did his hair well—and how happy he was. Brendon never thought twice about whether it was indicative of his sexual orientation; he’d spent too long getting to know his soul to ever feel like stereotypes ever applied to him.

Nostalgia filled the space between his ribs, heavy, hard to ignore and complicating his breathing

He missed Ryan. Deeply, deeply…he did.

 

 

 

A week passed, and Brendon didn’t see Ryan at all. A warning had been perfected after much effort, but died behind his teeth; he hadn’t needed to tell him he was afraid for Ryan being at his house because Ryan didn’t talk to him. No coming over as usual, and not even a text. But Brendon did see him twice, in the halls, and his eyes were foreign. He didn’t know what to make of him; he’d never seen Ryan so sad. It was enough for one glance to fill his head with worry for the whole week. By Friday, Brendon knew he had to reach out.

It was homecoming week, and he knew Ryan wouldn’t go to the game. He hesitates, struggling to type a message. Most of his texts to Ryan were lighthearted, stupid, nothing serious. He didn’t know what to say; he felt like he was a different person, addressing a complete stranger.

But, finally: _still want go to the dance?_

They had made plans weeks ago, and they had done it every year before. But maybe things would be different this time.

A reply: _yeah_

Brendon smiles, but he’s not quite at peace.

 

 

 

Ryan arrives at Brendon’s house. He’s already dressed. This stings; usually they dressed together, enjoying time spent together and making it fun.

Brendon drives them to the dance. He pulls into the school parking lot and looks over to see Ryan wringing his hands.

“Do you want to go?” Brendon asks.

Ryan hesitates, not meeting his eyes. “No,” he says softly.

Brendon watches classmates and peers walk by, laughing to each other. Maybe they would enjoy this, but he knew Ryan wouldn’t. And he very well knew he wouldn’t. He thinks of what Sarah said to him. He had words; he could use them. He could always change his life.

“Then we won’t go,” Brendon says, backing out of a parking spot. He drives to a local restaurant faster than what was legal, blaring rock music loud enough to make Ryan grin—finally, finally, and the remains of a tattered peace begin to come together again.

The restaurant is quaint, full of the character that can only be given by age and stagnation. Old people fill the bar, drinking coffee and eating plain meals, conversing softly, comfortably. Ryan and Brendon sit across from each other in a booth, sharing a plate of fries.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the dance?” Ryan asks.

“Nah,” Brendon replies.

“It’s your senior year. And isn’t your girlfriend going to be there?”

Brendon’s brain falters. He forgets the two know each other now. “No. I’m going to her dance next weekend.” He eats a fry, needing his mind to slow so he can speak clearly, evenly. “Don’t want the ‘rents to know we’re dating, you know?”

Ryan nods. He sets his hands back in his lap.

Brendon waits for him to speak up.

“I had planned on going to the dance with Keltie for so long.”

Brendon knew this; he remembered all the plans he had made, all the visions shared. He desperately needs for this night not to be sad for Ryan.

“Well, forget her. Don’t dwell on the past.” Brendon puts down money and stands up. “You can have a good dance without her.”

 

 

 

The two head to Brendon’s house—vacated. His parents are away for work for the weekend. For once, this was a wonderful coincidence.

Brendon digs out a radio and puts a mix CD in. He cranks the volume absurdly high and begins pushing furniture to the perimeter of the living room. Ryan stands in the distance watching, uncomfortable.

Brendon sings along to the music and dances stupidly, trying to invite Ryan to join him. It’s music they both love, punching rock felt in their cores and grimy punk oozing into their veins. The volume is loud enough that singing isn’t well heard, and they aren’t afraid to belt it out. Ryan gradually smiles more, even dancing a little. Tension fades, and comfort is allowed back into their lives again, little by little.

A song stops; a slow one comes on. The two grin and stop to catch their breaths before recognizing the song: _Iris_ by the Goo Goo Dolls. The atmosphere is still light and silly and amiable, and Brendon holds out his hand to Ryan, palm up. He opens his mouth to ask for the dance, but Ryan takes his hand before he needs to ask. Brendon puts Ryan’s arms over his shoulders and puts his own hands on Ryan’s waist, shooting a flirtatious look so comical Ryan can’t help but giggle. The two find the song’s rhythm and then their own.

As the song progresses, the smiling stops. Ryan puts one hand on his arm, beneath the cast and shrinking the distance between them. Brendon is close enough to wrap his arms around Ryan’s waist.

The lyrics begin to seep into Brendon’s ears. He hasn’t heard this song in a very long time, and it resonates with him now. He turns his head to look to his right, left, up—anywhere but where Ryan’s head is in front of him. He offers a laugh to keep the mood buoyant, but it is not reciprocated. Ryan puts his head on Brendon’s chest.

Brendon focuses on this weight. As the chorus begins again, he feels more resonance with the song, and with what Sarah told him.

Brendon tightens his arms around Ryan at the bridge and Ryan does the same. Their sock-covered toes bump occasionally. The chorus repeats and Brendon feels his heart beating faster as this resonance increases even more. He feels both truths within him, undeniable: he only wants Ryan to know how he feels, and he knows he always has the opportunity to change his life.

As the song ends, the two pull away, only inches. They look, locking eyes, searching for similarities in feeling, perception. Brendon feels Sarah’s words in his soul, but he hesitates—long enough for Ryan to pull away completely.

Brendon feels absolutely devastated for ruining an opportunity; the sadness clouds and fills his brain, muting all thought. Ryan rubs his right hand on his thigh.

“Do you—do you have something I can use to scratch with?” he asks.

Brendon swallows, trying to clear away the tightness. “Yeah, I think so,” he says, going upstairs to his room. He pulls a shirt off a metal hanger and bends an end, flattening it. He hears Ryan coming up the stairs. Brendon needs to shove his emotions back into civility before he can face Ryan again.

He hands Ryan the hanger, and he is able to scratch his wrist.

“Thank you,” he says, tossing it on Brendon’s nightstand. Brendon hopes the words are soft enough to be pliable—maybe Brendon can make them mean more than he thinks they do. Maybe this is what Sarah was talking about.

The two hold eyes again. Every passing moment transcends hope; as time passes, Brendon only feels that it means what he wants it to.

Ryan looks away briefly, flicking off the light switch. Brendon instantly blushes and feels fingertips on his hand.

Brendon knows what this means.

As children, whenever Ryan had something to confess, he shut off the lights. Brendon remembers Ryan confessing to having killed an ant with a magnifying glass. He was crying, but Brendon had been laughing hysterically, enough for Ryan to eventually join in. He remembers Ryan having finally discovered sex, assuming Brendon had been oblivious. Every word out of his mouth was full of innocence and wonder and absolute disgust; Brendon had laughed hard at that too. Brendon also remembers Ryan confessing to having kissed a girl. He remembers not laughing about that.

Brendon knew that what Ryan was about to do was something he wanted secret, but also something he was ashamed of.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Ryan whispers, paraphrasing Brendon’s words in the most heartbreaking way possible.

“No,” Brendon replies, the word slipping through his teeth.

Brendon feels it in the floor when Ryan walks closer, closing the gap between them.

Brendon feels Ryan’s lips on his own and melts. He feels dizzy, possibly from the lack of visual stimulus to keep him from feeling oriented. He knows it’s not the only reason.

The kiss ends, but the distance is not widened. Brendon closes it.

Another kiss, longer, but soft and sweet.  Brendon puts Ryan’s arms around his neck and finds his waist again. They turn their heads at a greater angle to kiss better. Brendon is inundated with nerves and excitement.

Brendon cannot bring himself to kiss anymore; the sensation draws the air from his lungs and he forgets to breathe. They part, breathing heavily, and Ryan flips the light back on. His face is pink, and he’s grinning shyly.

Neither says anything.

Ryan grabs the hanger again, and he knocks something off. He grabs it and looks at Brendon, his face now red.

“Where did you find this?” he asks quietly.

“On the kitchen floor,” Brendon replies.

Ryan grins awkwardly, briefly, putting it in his pocket.

“What?” Brendon asks.

Ryan blinks. “You don’t remember--?”

Brendon shakes his head, curiosity furrowing his brows.

Ryan exhales an embarrassed laugh before a graver humility sinks into his features. “It’s—it’s weird now. Coincidence.” He shakes his head, replacing the hanger on the nightstand. “I don’t want to bring it up.”

“Oh,” Brendon says, blinking.

Ryan swallows. “Yeah. So…anyway,” he says, licking his lips. “I’m gonna head out then.”

Nothing. He doesn’t feel anything. “Okay.”

Ryan backs out of the room, descends the staircase briefly. Brendon can press his lips together and still feel the ignited nerves, the echo of his kiss. He immediately begins to chew on his lips to eradicate it.


	6. fall; five

A strange kind of melancholy filled Brendon’s head.

His recent memory should have filled him with unbridled joy and excitement, anticipation for the future, and to an extent it did; but it was tinged with the tacit meanings of Ryan’s actions.

They had kissed in the dark. Ryan had been ashamed of it. He had done it impulsively.

There was a very good chance he’d never want to do it again.

Nausea bleeds into Brendon’s stomach, warping his guts. The agony of a dream being realized and yet having gone so, so wrong was devastating. It made him never want to wish for anything ever again.

He drums his thumbs on the steering wheel and he has to scrape the energy to do so out of his reserves. Brendon had crossed the line those few weeks ago, despite his good intent. Ryan had been allotted the right to cope with it as he pleased, and he had. And then what?

What would happen next?

Brendon clenches his jaw. His emotions are swelling and building, but he can’t identify them clearly enough to destroy them. He thinks of how this path has been traveled in other lives, by other people, and it only leads to sadness: their friendship will fade, its termination brought upon by alienation and misplaced intimacy.

Brendon’s fingers curl around the steering wheel, gripping it. The only constant he’s had in his life is Ryan. Everything he sees can be attributed to some memory of them. Every pivotal moment in his life was between them.

If Ryan were to disappear from his life, he would have no structure.

Brendon’s palms begin to ache from gripping the steering wheel. He bites his lip hard enough to lose some modicum of feeling.

What had he done?

 

 

He sits at the kitchen table alone, and he feels his loneliness is wrong.

This was so clichéd, so stereotypical, staring at an empty chair. It was unoriginal to the point of insincerity. This is what old people did when mourning the death of their spouses. That wasn’t Brendon; he didn’t deserve to feel this cripplingly lonely. He had lost a friend; nothing more, nothing less.

He didn’t dare let himself think about the similarity of the two scenarios

(shared history rooted deeply in his heart)

but it may have leaked into his mind anyway.

 

 

 

Brendon leaves his books splayed across the table. He doesn’t have the energy to move them.

His foot is on the staircase when the doorbell rings.

He opens the door and his blood pools in his feet, leaving his face feeling pale.

“Hey,” Ryan says.

Brendon swallows, and chokes out a timid response. “Hey.”

Ryan looks between his feet, rubbing his hand over his cast. “Can I…” He looks up. “Can I come in?”

A blink, another. He pitches his weight back, letting his feet guide him. “Yeah.”

Ryan’s shoes were worn and filthy, fit to give way at any time. They were a dampened click on the wood floor; Brendon’s socks provided a complementary shuffling.

“I—it didn’t mean nothing. I mean, it couldn’t have been meaningless. What you did.” Ryan meets his eyes, searching, searching. “What we did.”

Blood thunders in Brendon’s ears. He can’t open his mouth.

Ryan licks his lips. “We’ve always been passionate, you know? We’ve always followed what we wanted to do blindly and without hesitation. I feel like we’ve both travelled this path of braving the chambers of our hearts; we haven’t let anything stop us. And I feel like…I feel like we can continue travelling together. I feel like it’s only right.”

A swift panic fills Brendon’s lungs; he can only suck in shallow breaths. He blinks, analyzing subtext as it flew through his mind: _what was this? was this really happening? how could he have been so wrong about—_

Everything stops. He hears his heart beat three times, and Ryan pulls away. Echoes of his lips hum in Brendon’s. He is willing to do anything in his power to keep them from dying.

He leans into Ryan, kissing him back. The panic in his lungs escapes, replaced with….nothing. He can breathe. He forces himself to become aware of Ryan’s lips, how they move, how soft they are, and how everything they had ever done together had led to this moment.

Brendon can’t move; he feels to break this position would break the beauty of their kiss. But he needs touch, he needs Ryan to have affirmation. One hand finds Ryan’s and he knots their fingers awkwardly, knuckles meeting at weird angles. Ryan turns his head to kiss Brendon more deeply, tongue licking between Brendon’s lips. Ryan exhales deeply, relaxed and relieved. A plethora of stolen wishes and hidden memories flood Brendon’s mind, only providing evidence.

His head spun with sensation and confusion and unadulterated happiness, but his feet felt solid, heavy, planted. He couldn’t go anywhere; he wasn’t meant to.

Ryan pulls his hand free of Brendon’s to correctly interlock their fingers.

Brendon didn’t believe anything was ever right, but this had the magnitude to change his mind. Their histories had been blended together for this to happen. Brendon thinks of every time one of them almost switched schools or moved away, and it’s too many for this moment to be a coincidence. Time and location and contents of their hearts were too perfectly aligned for happenstance to have been the conductor.

The last swirls of panic evaporate from Brendon’s lungs. He can breathe. For the first time in his life, he can hold a deep, deep breath without anything stopping him. He touches his fingertips to Ryan’s cheek, inhaling, and—

“Brendon?”

His eyes shoot open and the air is sucked out of his lungs.

Ryan pulls away fast enough that he nearly trips over his own feet.

The door slams, and there is a moment of silence, of piercing eye contact, of burning faces.

The first to break the silence is his father.

“Get the hell out of my house, you queer.”

Ryan looks to Brendon for aid, but Brendon can’t speak. He feels like he’s been sucker punched in the gut.

“Brendon, what the hell is going on? What the hell did he do to you? Why is he—”

Ryan tries to speak, but his words are decapitated with a shout. “You do not get to speak to me, you fag.”

“Dad,” Brendon pleads, tears lacing the word.

“What? Are you going to defend him?” A look of complete mortification drips down his face, dragging his features. “Did you start this?”

“No!” Brendon nearly shrieks. Ryan eyes are burning holes into his head. He can’t look at him.

“Just go, Ryan,” Brendon whispers, throat tight. He digs his nails into his palms, humiliated at his voice.

He catches Ryan’s wide, wide eyes. His own prickle, and a quiver sinks into his jaw.

“Get out of my house, Ryan,” Brendon says. It’s louder, but through a cracked pitch.

He feels his dad’s eyes on him now, and it feels like being pulled under waves. It strikes much more fear into his heart.

He knows whose disappointment he fears more.

“Just go! I don’t even know why you’re here. I’m not like you. I never will be. Why don’t you get that?” Brendon swallows, eyes brimming. Ryan is staring, just staring. His eyes are becoming shallower, building walls as protection.

 _I’m so sorry,_ Brendon thinks.

“Get out of my house,” Brendon squeaks around tears, pointing to the door. Ryan slips out without hesitation.

The door slams again, jarring enough for reality to hit. His parents tell him things in different volumes, gesticulating wildly and then not. He doesn’t hear any of it. Two thoughts soar and crash and dismantle and reassemble mercilessly in his mind:

_I’m sorry._

_What have I done?_


	7. spring

_The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life._

-–Jack London

 

 

_With the coming of spring, I am calm again._

-–Gustav Mahler

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. spring; one

“Jesus—stop, stop, oh my fucking—” Brendon’s hands are on both sides of the stall, pushing as hard as he can, forcing himself back. His head hits the wall, but he can deal with it. His breathing is fast, shallow, and in any other scenario it might have been panicked.

“Seriously, stop, I’m gonna—” He closes his eyes, chokes on a breath for a moment. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he puts them in his hair, gripping and nearly ripping some out. He feels his shorts get pulled up. He feels fit to collapse. Just as his feet start to slide hands grip his hips, pushes him flush against the wall with an utterance of mocked warning, a smile built around a “Whoa, there.”

“Such a privilege,” the voice growls against his neck. Brendon’s face burns. Hands slip up under his shirt, leaving white-hot dots around his waist.

“I know,” Brendon says, trying to regain composure but his voice is wavering, unsolidified.

 A breathy, silent laugh against his skin. Brendon’s skin crawls with chills, reminding him how tight his skin is from two different layers of sweat.

“Whatever, Urie,” Dallon says, pulling away and putting his fingers in Brendon’s hair. He’s tall, he’s so goddam tall. Brendon feels miniscule, all his weight pooling in his toes for more than one reason. “Good practice, anyway. You’re promising.” He pulls back completely, wiping his mouth with his arm. It makes Brendon feel a little sick, but he can’t pretend he doesn’t enjoy it. He looks over Brendon, who now feels completely exposed in shorts and a tee shirt. “Very promising.”

“I’m sure, Weekes,” Brendon says, voice a little stronger. Dallon smiles at his tenacity, and Brendon’s stomach knots.

Dallon turns and walks out of the stall, grabbing his cleats off the tiled floor. “Hope this was a good start to your weekend.”

“Definitely,” Brendon says, voice sounding foreign in his own ears. He watches Dallon’s lanky body bend to grab his bag, keys, shoes, tying his cleats together and holding them in his free hand. He leaves, and Brendon isn’t sure what to think anymore.

 

 

 

He sits in his car, but he can’t bring himself to start it.

Familiar soreness is bleeding into his muscles and joints, weighing him down. He enjoyed soccer—loved it, really—but there were days that left him drained, and it took a toll on his emotions.

This was one of those days.

He glances at his phone and blinks, a minor wave of surprise rippling through his nerves. Dallon had already texted him and that was not out of the ordinary, but he had five missed calls from Sarah. Sarah, who abhorred making phone calls. Sarah, who knew he had soccer practice every afternoon.

Brendon listens to the first one, and his foot is shaking by the end. It’s completely unintelligible, her voice full of tears.

The second and third aren’t any different. His anxiety builds. The car feels smaller.

The fourth was placed an hour after the first three, and her voice is composed now. The pitch of her voice is foreign, enough to send chills down his spine the moment he hears it. She’s calm, but only the kind of peace that comes from complete destruction.

“My parents found out about her. I told them about you. I’m sorry.”

His face burns in embarrassment. He listens to the next one.

“Hey Don. I’m sorry about telling them, but I had to. I just had to. And they’re not letting me back in the house, so just…call me when you get this, yeah?”

He blinks, mind empty. The message ends, and the dial tone jarring. He drops his phone from typing too hard.

 

 

 

“Hey, boyfriend,” she says as Brendon slides into her booth. It’s meant to be jovial, but it just sounds defeated.

“What happened, Sarah?”

She waves his words away. “Left my phone at home during school, didn’t have a passcode on it, blah blah blah. You know the rest. But hey,” she says, sipping her soda. “They totally think I’m in love with you despite what I told them. So, Don…” She takes his hands across the table, her face a caricature of humility and anguish. “I apologize for my infidelity, my love. Please forgive me.”

Brendon blinks, again, and more. He’s sitting on tenuous grounds and he doesn’t know what to say.

“Um, it’s fine, Sarah. So are you okay? Are you gonna get back in your house, or--?”

She pulls her hands away, setting them in her lap. Instantly, she shrinks. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. They were just freaked out. But I suppose you know what that feels like.”

He swallows, teeth catching his bottom lip. “Yeah,” he mutters.

Sarah mirrors the action briefly before drawing up her shoulders and saying, “But it’s okay. I’m okay now. And to be completely honest, I think it was worth it.”

Brendon cocks his head, blinking again. “What?”

Sarah offers an embarrassed smile, looking down at her hands in her lap. “Yeah. I think I love her, Don.”

He says nothing. What on earth could he say?

She doesn’t wait for a response; she tells him about the two of them. Throughout the story Brendon becomes aware of his jaw clenching and sections of his bottom lip growing numb because he’s bitten it so hard. A strange whirl of anguish and happiness sits heavy in his chest, and he struggles to breathe.

What on earth could he say?

  
“Well, anyway,” Sarah concludes, finishing off her soda. “That’s more than you cared to know. I’m sorry I kept you here while I rambled. I’m doing all right. They’ll let me back in. Go on home and do your homework, or something. Thank you for coming, Don.”

Brendon still can’t find words. He leaves without even trying to.

 

 

 

It’s a long drive from that restaurant to his house. His mind doesn’t stop racing every moment of it.

He thinks of Sarah. He thinks of how he still really loves her. He feels sad for her right now. But he can empathize with her situation. And maybe he can identify with more of it than he let on.

He clenches his jaw. His phone vibrates in the cup holder, and his immediate assumption is of Dallon.

Friends with benefits wasn’t as awkward as he’d anticipated. They were barely even friends, but this distance still didn’t make things weird. Sometimes Dallon sent sexy pictures, but more often than not, it was funny stuff. Brendon had quite a few classes with Dallon, and even this simple meeting was enough to seat some congeniality, some friendliness. Something.

He drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, faint music dripping through the radio. Whatever he had with Dallon, it never changed. Whatever he was feeling about it—or anything, or anyone, or the world—there was absolutely no change. Days passed through the same filter, and he was okay with it. It was stable.

It was the first time he’d had the safety of his world being constant in months. It served as a breed of happiness.

It had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know boys' soccer is in the fall. I know. Just suspend your disbelief and bear with me.


	9. spring; two

It was March, but it was still bitterly cold. Brown lumps of snow had coagulated throughout the field. Sharp January wind hadn’t left the air; every breath ached. As Brendon ran the length of the field for hours, his lungs absolutely burned.

As did his fingers, and his ears, and every part of his skin not covered by shorts and tee shirt. The cold was restricting, making it difficult for him to extend fully his arms and legs, despite the competitive energy surging through him.

He sprints across the field as the opportunity for a play becomes brightly obvious, a juxtaposition against the gray sky and muddy grass. A swinging kick to shoot the ball across the field, but it goes awry—he loses his balance and lands flat on his back. Someone helps him up, but he’s too distracted by the biting pain in his ankle to recognize who it is.

The coach assesses it with an ugly curse and sends him off to get ice. Dallon throws Brendon’s arm over his shoulder, helping him hobble to the gym. Dallon’s hand is tight on Brendon’s waist. He almost thinks of the fingers on his hip more than the thick, buoyant pain in his foot.

Brendon has been very unaware of passing time lately. Whole days go unaccounted for, hours spent staring at walls feel like minutes, moments. There’s nothing to keep him grounded. When Dallon goes to get him ice, he puts weight on his foot. He winces, but he feels like he’s wading to the shores. This is something to fixate on, something to bring him out of the whirlwind of his thoughts.

Dallon props Brendon’s foot up on the bench was his gym bag beneath his ankle. “Good going there,” he comments, but it’s far from serious, despite his composure. Dallon had a very dry sense of humor; Brendon had been with him long enough to recognize it.

“If it gets me out of laps, it’s worth it,” Brendon says, biting his lip against the piercing cold and sharp ice just about cutting through the plastic. He readjusts the bag in the hopes of comfort, but it’s for naught.

“You need a ride home, then?”

It _is_ Brendon’s right ankle that’s been injured. He wants to feel on top of time, but he also wants to lose himself with Dallon.

Brendon kneads a sliver of ice between his fingers through the bag. “Sure, yeah.”

 

 

 

A thin kind of coincidence had occurred. Nothing major, nothing enough to make him wonder incredulously at the inner workings of the universe, but it was something. Friday night; his parents were away; Dallon’s happened to be as well.

Brendon feels Dallon’s hand make its way up his back, following his spine under his shirt. His ankle had begun to throb now, but it was masked by Dallon’s tongue against his own.

It wasn’t much, but he was grateful nonetheless.

Brendon pulled Dallon’s face closer, fingers brushing the wisps of hair that lay at the base of his neck. He was aware of Dallon’s hand flat against his back, between his shirt and skin, between his body and the couch cushion. Dallon had been careful not to put all of his weight on Brendon’s hips. He was sure his ankle was singing a hymn of gratitude for maintaining blood circulation.

Neither had showered after practice, and it should have made this gross. Brendon should have been repulsed at the dried sweat once on Dallon’s neck, now on his tongue. Dallon should have been deterred from advances by the dirt on Brendon’s knuckles, but he’d meticulously sucked all of his fingers anyway. Brendon can feel Dallon’s bangs brush against his forehead, still cool with sweat. He should have felt the chill of disgust knot his stomach, but instead there was heat—a ravenous, orotund heat that melted his guts completely.

Dallon pulls his mouth from Brendon’s with a crisp _pop_ , and both grin shyly, cheeks flecked with pink. He presses his lips against Brendon’s neck, kissing more and more until he’s essentially licking Brendon’s neck, humming a song Brendon doesn’t recognize against his skin. The combination is nothing short of electrifying; Brendon’s fingers relocate to his back and hips, where he can take out his spasms on taut muscles and protruding bone, pressing a thumb into the dip of Dallon’s hip, stroking down until he hits waistband, and—

Brendon’s phone vibrates between himself and the couch, and the sensation makes him blush wildly. Dallon up, away, extricating himself from Brendon’s body. He stands at the side of the couch, hand shoving his bangs back.

Brendon can’t predict who the text is from. He usually only gets them from Sarah and Dallon, and it’s quite possible Dallon has somehow texted him just now, just for shits and giggles. Or maybe Sarah is gushing over her crush. Hell, it might even be the kid from the team who collided with him and helped him up.

The name illuminates his phone. The hurried collection of blood in his face now pools in his toes.

“Who is it?” Dallon asks, pulling off his shirt and looking for another in his dresser.

Brendon swallows. He focuses now on his breathing, how hard it is to take in a deep breath.

“Um. A friend.” Brendon coughs, trying to knock loose the tightness in his chest. “Needs help with homework.”

  
Dallon grins from across the room. “Porno opening if I’ve ever heard one.” He slips on a blue shirt and a sweatshirt over. “Need a ride there, I’m guessing?”

Brendon is taken aback by Dallon’s courteousness. Friends with benefits could really mean _friends_ with benefits. “Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind.”

 

 

 

He’s able to walk gingerly on his foot now, but the walk to Ryan’s front door is difficult nonetheless.

He hasn’t been here in years; he didn’t like Brendon seeing his dad at all, so time was spent at Brendon’s. This was an act of desperation. They hadn’t spoken in nearly six months, and now he asks for Brendon’s help? What was this?

Ryan opens the door before Brendon raises his fist to knock. One glance and Brendon feels his hand clench tighter. Ryan has definitely lost weight. He had always been thin, but now he was nearly gaunt. He looked exhausted on all realms, his eyes brimming with a deadness, a wall, something constricting his thoughts and not permitting Brendon entrance.

Usually Brendon could see well into Ryan’s eyes; now his efforts were brusquely bounced back. It was nothing shy of jarring, like the beams of the porch were cracking under his weight.

Wordlessly, he lets Brendon in. He feels like he’s a stranger again.

Papers and pencils are strewn about a calculus textbook on Ryan’s bedroom floor. He has two different calculators, one of them Brendon is pretty sure was his at one point.

He looks to Brendon. Brendon realizes he’ll have to carry the conversation.

“So, what are you doing right now?”

Brendon sits across from Ryan, setting his phone on the floor next to him. Ryan mirrors him, shuffling papers.

“Integration,” he mutters. Even his voice sounds different, like it’s from a stranger’s throat. Brendon’s face burns from an embarrassment he can’t source.

“Well, you just gotta, like—”

His phone lights up. Ryan’s eyes flicker down to it immediately.

“—you know how to derivate, right?”

Ryan blinks, not meeting Brendon’s eyes. “Not really.”

“What?” The word’s shot from his mouth incredulously. “How can you be this far in the class and not know how--? What the hell? This is literally the first half of the class.”

Ryan’s eyes flicker to Brendon’s phone again before back to his book. “I don’t know. I just don’t get it.”

Brendon sighs, putting a hand to his temples. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t cram in months of work in a few hours for him. His phone shows three texts from Dallon. Ryan won’t look away from the screen.

“Ryan, I can’t help you. I would have to start all over.”

Finally he meets Brendon’s eyes. They’re deep with misery, deep ruts of hopelessness finding familiar pathways. “What?” he chokes out.

“I can’t. If you’ve bullshitted the last few months, I would have to work so much harder to get it to sink in. I can’t do it in a day.”

Another text, another change of focus to his phone. Brendon feels an odd frustrated rage bubble in him. He stands, pocketing his phone.

“Brendon, please.”

He freezes. A breath skips and stutters in his lungs.

“Look, maybe—I’ll come another day. But I just can’t do it right now.”

“Why not?” Ryan asks, voice a little stiffer.

“Because you’re fucking pissing me off and I feel fit to scream at you.”

Ryan’s still seated in front of his work, forcing Brendon to stare him down. He feels unworthy to be at such great heights.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I just can’t today, and I gotta go.”

Ryan gets to his feet. “Okay.”

Brendon hadn’t anticipated him following him out. He's aware that Ryan's cast is gone. He bites his lip, nervousness bleeding into his stomach.

He reaches for the doorknob. Ryan stops him.

“I’m sorry,” he offers.

“For what?”

“For kissing you in your kitchen.”

Brendon’s face burns, a crisp surrealism washing over him. He was getting sucked back in time just as he’d been able to finally find the present. _Jesus_.

He turns to look at Ryan, thinks of something worthy of a comment, but the door opens behind him.

“Ready, Urie?”

Brendon shoots Ryan a weak grin of shyness, passivity, wishing good fortune despite the situation they’d just plunged themselves in. Awkwardness resonated between them; an outsider was witnessing their tribulations.

He follows Dallon out, only realizing once he turns around that he’s wearing Brendon’s shirt, one that’s too small and leaves an inch of stomach and hip exposed, one that he left after a midnight excursion to sneak into Dallon’s house. Ryan had memorized his wardrobe; surely he’d recognized it.

Whatever brand of acute, symmetric sadness that accompanied a piece of art finished and immediately destroyed was dripping into Brendon, starting in his fingertips and working itself inward. He didn’t know if it was worth his time to reassemble it, or let the shards collect dust. The sun was beginning to set, bright enough to paint its remnants of life on Dallon’s face, reflecting in his eyes. Before him was adventure--something new, unexplored, exciting in every way.

Maybe it would be healthier to create something new.


	10. spring; three

A weekend passes, and Brendon remembers none of it.

He goes through his typical school day, living in the back of his head. Ephemeral memories pop up by relation. Accidental touches remind him of Dallon’s fingertips; loud voices remind him of Sarah’s car. He cannot get out of his thoughts. Now that Ryan is back in his life…

It didn’t mean anything. Ryan needed help with school work; he always had, and Brendon had always helped him. This was nothing different. No past could color their relationship differently.

It didn’t mean anything.

He didn’t have to let it mean anything if he didn’t want it to.

Brendon sees Ryan in the hall briefly. Nausea settles deep in the pit of his stomach.

He tries to suck the color from his day, hoping for black and white.

 

 

 

For all of his attempts at justification, Brendon’s hand is still shaking when it touches the doorknob. For all of his self-provided reasoning, Ryan’s muted eyes still send a protective panic through his veins. For all of his preparation, his emotions were still not contained.

He can see Ryan sitting at his kitchen table. It's different than Brendon's, at a different angle. Fits in the room differently. It's nothing like Brendon's. His lungs become shallow at the sight nonetheless.

"So..." 

Ryan's back is to Brendon. He's afraid to sit across from Ryan. He's afraid to see his face.

Brendon swallows. "So, how do you feel about derivatives?"

"Fine, I think." Ryan's voice is sturdy, more confident than the other day. Brendon wishes it would put him more at ease than it does. He pulls his chair out and takes a seat.

"Okay, nice," Brendon says, looking at Ryan's scrawled-upon upside-down notebook. "Yeah, it all looks right. Good." He feels his chest tighten at the awkwardness he had tried so hard to ignore. He tries to bury it deeper in his cognizance. "So, um..."

"I think I have a pretty good handle on this. Maybe," Ryan says. "I could use more practice, definitely, but I'm far better off than I was Friday."

Brendon lets his words lead his thoughts. "It looks like it." He takes Ryan's notebook, trying to follow his work. "This is a lot better."

"Yeah," Ryan says, the syllable dying and falling into awkwardness. "I was studying all weekend. I didn't really get any sleep."

"Really?" Brendon asks, finally forcing himself to look at Ryan. His hesitation was justified; Ryan's eyes are flat and the newly-formed bags are heartbreaking. And yet, color flickers in his eyes. Life is coming back to him. Though his wrists look even skinnier than ever when he reaches to get his notebook back, he appears to be on a point of return--coming back to life, happiness, and maybe,  _maybe,_ even to--

"Yeah," Ryan laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't really remember sleeping at all this weekend. Numbers are all I see now."

Brendon blinks. He feels like he hadn't heard Ryan's voice in years and years, but hearing that airy awareness of a laugh feels like...what? It shocks him back into memories and mindsets he hasn't had in months and a whole new train of thoughts and the broadened possibility of how he can shape his life to be however he wants, and even though he knows Ryan meant nothing by it--it was just a laugh and barely even that--Brendon feels the air gets sucked from his lungs. Despite how he abhors awkwardness, he can't make himself respond.

"Um..." 

Brendon helplessly watches Ryan traverse the awkwardness Brendon has created.

"So...how was your weekend?" he finally asks.

"Good," Brendon says. "It was...good." He wants to bring up how he doesn't remember sleeping either, how he doesn't remember much of it at all, how he hasn't remember much of anything for months now, but he knew that would be out of place. He knew Ryan would be apathetic to it.

"Just good?" Ryan asks with a smile. 

Brendon remembers him doing this when they were younger--how he would mock Brendon in this way, but it was always far from serious. Even now it was lighthearted; he was still getting through the tension. Brendon was taken aback by how easily he could still do it so well.

"Yeah. Hung out with Sarah," he says.

Ryan nods, and Brendon can't tell what--if anything--crosses his face. "I'm glad."

Brendon feels dense nausea sit heavily in his stomach. He doesn't know why.

"Are you okay, Brendon? You look off."

Brendon blinks quickly, looking at Ryan. "Yeah, just tired." 

"Me too," he laughs, a smile blooming on his face. It was bright and beautiful and full of life, and Brendon feels his throat tighten. Panic begins to hum in the depths of his thoughts. He doesn't know why he's reacting this way.

"Do you remember--" Ryan shakes his head, laughing,  _laughing_ \--

\--"do you remember when we tried to stay up as late as we could?"

Brendon nods, but he cannot string together words. He looks at Ryan, imploring him to keep talking, keep breaking the tension, keep laughing.

"I don't even think I made it to ten o'clock," Ryan says, grinning.

"No," Brendon says, trying out his voice. "No, I think--yeah," he says, laughing now. He suddenly remembers that night so well. "You were bragging all day how you would beat me. I remember you crashing really, really hard."

Ryan beams, looking at his notebook briefly before meeting Brendon's eyes again. "Didn't I try to just get hopped up on sugar, like, the whole day?"

A vivid memory plays in Brendon's thoughts: Ryan had poured pure sugar into his soda and swallowed candy by the handful. It made him cringe, but he couldn't help but smile through it. "You did. It was disgusting."

Ryan laughs, putting his face in his hands. "That night was...god, didn't we, like, end up collapsing on your basement couch? How did we both manage to fit on there?"

Brendon smiles. "I don't--"

He blinks, and the word dies on his tongue.

He remembers Ryan crashing. He remembers Ryan being so wound up everything had become hysterical. He remembers Ryan thinking the ceiling was fascinating, and how he put his head on Brendon's lap to stare at it. He remembers Ryan closing his eyes, 'just resting, not sleeping.' He remembers how, after a half hour of hesitation and second guesses and prickling worry and excitement he brushed his fingers through Ryan's hair--softly, gently, then allowing more of his palm to caress his skull and more fingers to toy with the strands.

He remembers that night as being a turning point in his life.

Brendon swallows. "Yeah, we did end up crashing there."

"That was a really good night. I remember it really clearly." Ryan piles his books on a far end of the table. "I haven't been that happy in a long time."

Brendon watches his hands, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Hey, Brendon, I--I'm really sorry that I...you know--"

"Yeah," he says, offering a soft affirmation. "I know. Just...It's behind us. We don't need to think about it."

"Okay," Ryan says. "It didn't have to mean anything."

Brendon kneads his palm with his fingers. "Yeah," he says, a verbal attempt to kick away the weight suddenly pulling him down.

A moment passes and then another without words or eye contact or any buffering of the tension. 

"So, um, if you're good, it's getting kind of late, and--"

"Yeah, yeah," Ryan says hurriedly, nodding, gathering his stuff again for no apparent reason. "Yeah, I'm good. Thank you for coming over."

"Yeah," Brendon says, berating himself for being so awkward, not knowing what to say (he'd said 'yeah' so many damn times), not knowing what Ryan was thinking anymore. Not knowing how to coexist effortlessly like they always had. He stands, walks past Ryan and to the door. His hand is inches from the knob when Ryan says something from the kitchen, soft, like he regretted it after it came out of his mouth. But Brendon hears it, even if he doesn't stop turning the knob, even if he gives no indication of his awareness. He lets the words become his mantra, soak into his thoughts, saturate his bones, fill up the spaces where words like it had left ugly, cobwebbed crevices when they had been extricated that night so many months ago. He stitches the handful of syllables into his palm so he can never forget--never forget that even after all this time, there was hope and possibility to change his life, all because of something Ryan said offhandedly, secretly, silently:

"I missed you." 


	11. spring; four

"Brendon!"

He whips his head around to catch eyes with an infuriated teammate.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he spits. Rain meets the mud on his face, carrying it down in dripping rivulets toward his neck. Brendon thinks it resembles blood. "Why are you so distracted?"

Brendon says nothing. It's freshly halftime, and the two walk past the boundaries of the field together. 

"Get your fucking shit together, Brendon. We need you here, not in your head." The kid grabs his water bottle from the grass and walks away, leaving Brendon alone with his thoughts.

He can't bring himself to look up at the stands again. He knows whose eyes he'd meet, and he knows it won't help him bring his focus back to the field.

A hand finds his shoulder, deft and comfortable. 

"Hey, Urie," Dallon says, low and easy. "You all right?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, a little too quickly. "Yeah, yeah. I'm good."

Dallon squints at him, examining Brendon's flickering eyes. Brendon feels a blush beginning to form.

"I know there's something you aren't--"

Dallon stops, looking up in the stands exactly where Brendon won't. It takes him all of ten seconds to piece it together.

He grins slyly.

"Keep it in your pants, Urie," he laughs. "She'll be there when the game's over. And if we win, maybe there'll be more in it for you, yeah?"

Dallon claps a hand to Brendon's back, grinning to himself before parting ways. He's left feeling off-balance: amazed at how Dallon could misinterpret the situation so immensely, but knowing there was no reason for his focus to have shifted to Ryan sitting next to Sarah.

And though he had been nearly demanded to be pried from his thoughts, he can't let himself be. After Dallon's comment Brendon only sinks into them further. But for once, for the first time in months, it feels billowy, welcoming. He doesn't mind. Halftime passes by much quicker than he realized, but his inability to count the minutes correctly doesn't bother him anymore. It can't--it means something entirely different now. 

He's with Ryan again. His entire world is different.

Just as the rest of the team is heading back onto the field, Brendon lets himself look up at the stands. A fear flickers through him--the wondering of whether doing so would plunge him further into his thoughts, further away from reality, further from his feet. But as he meets Sarah's eyes, he becomes flush with reality; and as he meets Ryan's he is pulled entirely free of his thoughts. Waiting for him after the game were the two people he loved most in his life. His life was finally coming together; he didn't need to worry about them. He could allow himself to focus on the game.

He really did love both of them.

And after the game, in the heat of celebration, in the midst of Brendon's unadulterated happiness and excitement, they head to the diner that already held such a warm place in Brendon and Ryan's hearts. As Brendon sits across from Ryan and Sarah, he knows he has to tell them the truth.

So he does.

Hours pass, filled with secrets under sunshine and the sun itself letting itself below the comfort of the horizon. Everything Brendon had withheld from each of them had been trudged up. More than once, it felt like cracking ribs. As he watched their eyes widen and avoid his and meet each other's, he knew he was doing the right thing, even if it was hard.

Especially if it was hard.

And as the food they share vanishes, so does the discomfort of exposing oneself to the people they love, the discomfort of being the one to create intimacy. To cross the line. To take the chance.

Brendon had never really been nostalgic before; he figured he just wasn't old enough, unable to look back objectively at the handful of years behind him. But even as the moment becomes only seconds old, he knows it'll settle deep down in his memories. He knows he won't easily be able to forget the night he fell in love over and over and over. He knows he won't be able to forget the level of honesty he allows himself tonight. And he knows--even if the thought comes on bated breath, even if he tries to look away from it, even as he half-heartedly wishes it's too good to be true--that he never wants to live another day without either of them. He has found the people who make life not only worth living, but worth fighting for--worth moving forward and breaking rules and trespassing lines and challenging barriers. Sarah and Ryan made him want to abandon comfort for excitement, to experience the world only where it was in front of him. He wanted desperately to make his world his own, and he knew he could--he had the words and actions at his disposal to do so.

In the absence of words, there is silence among them. It is the comfort of closeness, and it is sacred.

Brendon thinks he could never feel his life had more potential and opportunity for the rest of his life.


	12. spring; five

Brendon knew he couldn’t spend the rest of his life with Ryan.

They were going off to colleges at different corners of the country, pursuing dreams that didn't reside in the other. In essence, they were never made to be together--they were too different.

Brendon wonders just how different, just how much that matters.

He watches as Ryan sleeps next to him, maybe half a foot away, both nestled in the menagerie of blankets and quilts and comforters they had stuffed in the back of Brendon's dad's pick-up. It was well past two in the morning, but Brendon couldn't sleep, couldn't let himself succumb to the comfort. 

It was his last night with Ryan for, quite possibly, forever.

And he assumed the gravity of this scenario hadn't sunk into Ryan's mind, or else maybe he would have stayed up with Brendon. For a moment, Brendon wonders if whatever they have was ever that important. 

As if on cue by some inner workings of the universe, Ryan's hand twitches in his, fingers briefly closing around Brendon's. If he squints, he can let this be an affirmation of his thoughts. He very much wants to keep his eyes half-closed the rest of the night.

Exhaustion was egging this on as well, quite literally: today had been the last day of school, the last day the inner workings of something less magnificent than the universe--society--would force them together. Tonight was the last night they could share before Ryan moved away to work long hours for a cousin out east, making "stupidly huge" amounts of money, apparently. 

Tonight was the last night Brendon had to say what was on his mind.

Looking at Ryan, he knows he could pull his body against himself, wrap his arm around Ryan's chest and press adoring kisses into his neck. He could tell Ryan he loved him, he  _loves_ him, that he probably always will, somewhere, somewhere in his heart. Even if they never spoke again, even if they moved on, even if they found love in someone who could always return it, he would always love Ryan. He could never abandon their history, their friendship, and whatever they had now, at this moment. 

Brendon knows he could say all of this to Ryan right now, in between the stars and silence that surround them. He knows he could wake Ryan up and kiss him like there was no tomorrow--and, frankly, there wasn't. He knows he could change everything, let Ryan know everything.

He also knows that wasn't the way to go about their relationship.

He knew better than to treat it as something so sacred.

No, Brendon thought, he would let Ryan sleep. He would say nothing to him--not about the flat washer he found while sorting through boxes of their memories, not about the other colored string alongside, not about how he remembered where it had come from and why Ryan had been warmly embarrassed at finding his in Brendon's room. He would say nothing about how every old photo and drawing and letter had made his chest ache with nostalgia, the nostalgia he could have, the nostalgia he deserved. He would say nothing about how much Ryan meant to him.

He didn't think that was the kind thing to do.

Instead, he would savor this night. Brendon rubs his thumb over Ryan's, thinking about what the east coast will be like for him. He then pulls his fingers from Ryan's and examines the wrist they connect to, the wrist that had been in a cast for so long, all because of something he had done. Their months-long separation had been all because of something he had done. And maybe he should be upset, bitter, hating himself, but he isn't. He doesn't regret it anymore, because it had led to this moment. Looking back, it was a good thing he had been so fearless, acted so impulsively, let his heart guide him. His heart seemed to always know what was best, even if his mind couldn't find logic in it.

He would never understand his heart. Maybe that was for the best.

Brendon presses a kiss to the inside of Ryan's wrist. He doesn't stir.

An odd peace settles over Brendon. He was anticipating sadness--God, how he would miss Ryan--but it was mingled with the warm, saccharine happiness of their lives together as childhood friends, as best friends, as soul mates in some form or another. He had never predicted this to be their end: something akin to boyfriends, walking the line between romantic and platonic feelings. It was all so without definition and structure, somehow both complete outside of and naturally within the realm of possibility at the same time.

It never should have happened. And yet, it had to. It had always had to.

Through his odd peace, Brendon can feel his eyes burn. He sits up, presses a kiss to Ryan's forehead. He still doesn't stir. Brendon is not upset at the universe for this. 

He rests his hand on Ryan's head, thumbing through his hair, brushing it from his face. In moonlight and the pinprick glow of stars, he's beautiful. In the light of years spent together and memories interwoven between their fingers, he's wonderful. In the encroaching future of heartbreaking distance and inevitably cut ties, he's something to be treasured. Something holy.

Something sacred. 


	13. epilogue

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the two stand still, right in front of each other. It was strange to see--her son was full of the manic energy six-year-olds usually possessed, quite possibly having sapped the Ross kid's allocation to send him on wild streaks across the yard and leaving the quieter one reserved and peaceful. Jokingly, she thinks she should mark the calendar; it could be a while before Brendon stood still for longer than five seconds. Making her way to the kitchen window overlooking the backyard, they seem to be talking to each other, examining their hands and conferring about it.

She grins at their seriousness. It seems so misplaced in such small bodies.

It's not long before they head back to the house. For one brief moment, she wonders if something is wrong, and panic flares in her. But realizing they are walking slowly, taking their time (the Ross kid literally stops to look at a flower), she knows they're in no danger, no pain. Just inquisitive of the world around them, just coming to someone taller for advice. Her height granted her knowledge and importance to these kids. How strange it was, she thought. How strange it was that she was more worldly only by comparison.

As they make their way into the house, her son holds up his hand. He must have dug out a flat washer from the small box of them in the garage. Another flickering panic takes hold of her as she thinks of all the chemicals and potentials for danger the garage holds, but it fades. He is fine; they are both fine.

She was always quick to assume the worst. Her predictions always followed the path of most destruction.

Brendon has a washer around his middle finger. Looking behind him she can see the Ross kid--Ryan, she remembers--Ryan has the one on his hand in the same manner. 

For one moment, she cocks her head before smiling to herself, looking at the ring around her own finger. The two metals on the two hands clash, but they're the same in essence, serving the same purpose.

"Are you two married?" she asks through a grin.

"Yes," Brendon says seriously, and it makes her smile so wide he looks at her strangely.

"Do you know what 'married' means, Bren?" she asks. She tries on a serious voice to keep herself from ostensibly mocking her son, but it's difficult, seeing someone so young so mature in this realm. He was in the midst of marriage when she could hear him read aloud to himself at night. It was endearing, but she knew to him it would seem like mockery. She swallows down her grin.

He ponders her question for a moment, looking over at Ryan for help. "When you want to be with someone forever."

"That's--that's true," she concedes with a smile. "That's very true."

Brendon plays with the washer, struggling to get it to stay on his hand. "When you love someone."

She nods, watching him clamp his fingers together so the washer--the ring, she thinks with a smile--won't fall off. "That's right, Bren. So you love Ryan, then? You want to be with him forever?"

Brendon nods, not returning her smile out of the ignorance that comes of innocence--he doesn't know what her reaction means. "Yes. Of course."

There is the clink of metal on tile. Brendon bends down to pick up the washer and slide it back on.

And then they are outside again, pushing their rings back on each other's fingers so they stay on. She watches them through the window as they reach the furthest they can go away from the house. She looks down briefly at her own ring, then up at the shrieking laughter bubbling up from her son's lips. Anything was possible, she decides. No point in trying to predict it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! Three years in the making, and I'm really happy with this. Started off fully written, then deleted everything but the opening scene out of spite. Now it's completely different than how I imagined those few years ago, but I'm thrilled with how it turned out. It's rough and unedited (and I think that's pretty apparent), but I'm still happy with it. It's technically the first story I've ever finished (because I started it so long ago), and this all kind of feels surreal, in all honesty. Hope it was worth the time it took to make it!


End file.
